Pop Tart Blues
Remorse is biting again. I feel fine: everybody lives in
Hattiesburg, Mississippi, the
great city of my pleasure, and I'm broadcasting hot water
until the ladder on the roof rots
out. Shadows don't change. The train blows on through. My
knife-sharpener is in the
Museum of Modern Art1. Everything in Hattiesburg, without
moving, runs into the train
and falls down onto its back. I hope that I'm not being glib.
I just put on my snorkel
mask, I'm better than government cheese, you're buying me as
is, and do you know that
means you can only let me down? My pigment is dull and
beautiful, either, because we
say I love you and go check our messages, alone in a squared
But the best of us have been turned
away from such parties-I, for instance, recently
learned that hoop-snakes, which curl their bodies into circles
and roll at a great speed
after their prey, have never existed in nature. As the train
blows on through an asteroid
turns dawn into pink dinosaur goo. Drought wilts all of the
leaves in my bathtub
wildflower-garden as a squirrel stretches, upside-down, down a
tree-trunk. The dogwoods
blossom paper and after the storm the air was soft before the
storm as a kelp begat a fern.
The chunk of the driveway's pebbled concrete on the enormous
metabolism fondly for the same reasons that the Tin Man is a
totem-pole and vice versa.
bought it for Nicole as a present when I was courting her.